


A Sea of Space and Stars

by Sovin



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alien Cultural Differences, Alternate Universe - Science Fiction, Androids, Developing Relationship, M/M, Selkie AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-26
Updated: 2015-10-26
Packaged: 2018-04-28 04:34:29
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,107
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5077987
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sovin/pseuds/Sovin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Combeferre wakes in a strange room on a strange ship, with the spacesuit that can get him home hopelessly, desperately lost in a place where no one speaks a language he knows and gravity boxes him in. Grantaire hopes to make at least one of those things less true.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Sea of Space and Stars

**Author's Note:**

  * For [guineamania](https://archiveofourown.org/users/guineamania/gifts).



> Please insert the usual disclaimer here.
> 
> Thanks to [Samyazaz](http://www.samyazaz.tumblr.com) for listening to my ramblings about space alien selkies and language in space, and to [Léo](http://www.dragongrantaire.tumblr.com) for their help with the ever tricky title.
> 
> Come say hello at [my tumblr](http://www.sovinly.tumblr.com)!
> 
> For guineamania's request "Pretty much anything is okay with me. No explicit sex please but I am fine with BDSM.  
> I really like fantasy or sci fi elements or non sexual submission or slavery fics. Thanks." I couldn't work in the BDSM, given the circumstances, but I hope you're okay with a sci-fantasy reimagining of a selkie story. It was a joy to write for you, and I hope you enjoy it! Happy Halloween!
> 
> In case it's unclear, species' definitions of gender don't necessarily match up, but they're working with what they've got. Also, I tried to do my best, but there are inherent complications in creating a society where spoken and sign languages developed without the history they have in our world, so please let me know if there's some misstep I've made and I'll do my best to correct it. Also, all the science in this story is handwave-y, but I learned some cool things from Canadian astronaut videos!

Even before Combeferre is fully awake, foggy dreams starting to fade to a waking blur, he feels the crushing weight on his bones.

Every breath aches like there’s something pushing hard against his ribcage.

Carefully, he opens his eyes, blinking against the bright, yellow-toned light, and squints around blurrily.

This is not his home; this is a strange room with oddly flat walls and sterile surroundings. There’s a definite orientation, which means gravity, which explains why he feels so crushed against the bed he’s lying in. It’s been a while since he’s been on a planet with gravity, and none of the planets his people settle on have gravity this strong.

Fascinated, Combeferre slowly, cautiously, levers his weight up to lean against the wall so he can look around more.

Now that he’s awake and not panicking about the pressure on his body, he has a somewhat clearer picture of what’s happened. The last thing he remembers is getting separated from his ship, caught in an unexpected current, with the distant stars whirling, dancing all around him as everything faded to darkness. So someone must have found him – it’s not surprising, since Les Amis’ ship has been edging closer and closer to inhabited space. Another ship would probably explain the strange wind currents and the odd readings that Bossuet reported.

Combeferre notes, hopeful, that he’s not restrained. He also notes, less hopeful, that his spacesuit is gone and nowhere in sight, leaving him in just his jumpsuit and feeling strangely vulnerable.

Without his spacesuit, which has his communications link and ability to survive out in the bare darkness of space, he’s trapped here.

Whoever has found him is clearly monitoring him, because he can’t have been awake for more than a few minutes when the door slides open and someone enters.

They’re shorter than Combeferre, but probably of a height with Courfeyrac, who’s only a little short by their standards, and slim, with a higher center of gravity, and strangely pink coloring, nearly hairless skin even though the hair on their head is thick and straight. Their eyes are white around the iris, making for an eerie effect but a lovely contrast. Their uniform – it must be a uniform, though Combeferre has no idea if it’s military, medical, or scientific – has markings that must denote some sort of rank.

They stand stiff and straight, and say something that sounds oddly flat to Combeferre’s ears. It doesn’t sound like any language he’s ever heard before.

“Hello. I’m sorry, I don’t understand you,” Combeferre says, turning his hands palm out and tilted toward his legs, trying to look harmless. Which probably isn’t that hard, considering he’s barely staying propped up against the wall and every breath strains him.

But the alien’s posture doesn’t seem threatening and they didn’t bring a weapon in. It would be silly to panic, just yet.

The person tries a few more halting attempts in what seem to be different languages, but none of them are anything Combeferre recognizes and, oddly, are all oral, and they seem equally baffled when Combeferre tries the ones he knows.

For a moment, the two of them just stare at one another.

That this person doesn’t have a protocol in place at least suggests that they weren’t expecting to pick up someone who _didn’t_ know whatever language(s?) they consider standard. He’s not entirely sure what that means, but more data is always welcome, if frustrating.

And it is _very_ frustrating, or at least disappointing, to be with people he’s never met or heard of and not be able to _communicate_ with them or ask the hundred questions he already has.

Also, he belatedly thinks, in a very disapproving-Joly cast, to know if he’s being retained as a science experiment, potential threat, or as an injured unknown victim.

Exhausted and still slightly dizzy, Combeferre tries his best to stay alert. His visitor – the ambassador, that will be the best way to think of them until he can figure out more – summons someone else who turns out to be a medic, judging by the way they look Combeferre over and consult a display with what’s he’s positive is the rhythm of his heartbeat. The medic at least seems satisfied that Combeferre isn’t in distress, which is probably all they can hope for in this situation.

The ambassador lingers even after the medic leaves, waiting until one more person turns up, slouched and insouciant compared to the others’ upright posture. Combeferre watches the ambassador say a few quiet things to the new arrival before they turn to Combeferre, gesturing to the newest person before leaving.

Combeferre just isn’t sure _what_ the new-and-different person’s role is supposed to be. A guard? A caretaker? An assistant? Perhaps someone with a language background?

They study Combeferre for a moment, then drop to the floor in a way that looks incredibly painful, and sit crosslegged, in Combeferre’s easy line of sight. They’re trying to look non-threatening, he realizes.

“Hello,” Combeferre greets them, aloud and then with his hands.

There’s a bit of a pause before the person’s eyes crinkle at the corners – amusement? Pleasure? – and they reply, mimicking both utterance and gesture, the pitch of the word wavering oddly but still understandable. “Hello.”

It’s a start, and Combeferre brightens, instinctively trying to straighten up before gravity pushes him back down. Suddenly, he doesn’t feel quite so alone. Communication is the best tether there is for silence and cold and confusion.

“I am called Combeferre,” Combeferre says, giving his family name, the one he usually uses in the oral language. He pauses a moment, then signs it as well, unsure if these people even have a concept of manual language, but this time with his personal name. He’s always liked his name, the way the crook of _inquisitive_ feels cradled in the motion for _cherished_ and the way his mothers remind him with every use that he is undeniably loved.

“I am call Grantaire.” They try to mimic the spoken phrase, fumbling the tone. The sign for being-named seems more intuitive to them, but their mouth quirks and their eyebrows go up – though it doesn’t seem to be an expression of amusement – as they spread their hands in an empty gesture; they have no name-sign.

“Grantaire,” Combeferre tries, thoughtful. It sits high in his mouth, a lovely shape of a thing, and the second syllable sounds very much like the word for ash. He’s always liked puns, and taps _ash_ against his shoulder. It will do for now, until they find a name that fits better. He signs it in full: “Your name is Grantaire.”

Grantaire’s eyes crinkle again, and their mouth splits in a waning planetary crescent as their long fingers flash and then they speak, phrases in parallel. “I am called Grantaire. You are called Combeferre.”

Delighted, Combeferre studies Grantaire. They’re short, shorter even than the ambassador or medic, with a tangle of brown-black curls, and their skin is entirely hairless, though a cool, even olive brown, not quite as strikingly pink-toned as the others’ had been to Combeferre’s eyes. There are other differences, too – their eyes are blue-toned-green on almost-grey, faintly lit up like a console display, and their face is hyper-symmetrical, with a faint inlaid pattern of blue on their forehead and coming down to the bridge of their nose, and there’s a stripe of the same blue in the center of their lower lip that might be cosmetics or a similar decoration.

A branch species then, maybe? Or genetic modification? Combeferre doesn’t know them well enough to ask, doesn’t know enough of a common language to ask, in any case.

Instead, gathering his courage and his fear, he asks after his spacesuit, indicating his clothes in hopes that Grantaire will get the point.

Get it they do, after a few confused moments. Grantaire rises easily from the floor, perching gingerly on the edge of Combeferre’s bed as they pull out some sort of communications tablet, hunching over a little as their hand works a stylus in quick, sharp strokes for a few minutes.

Their hands are well-made, delicate but sturdy, and as unadorned as those of everyone else so far.

That’s so strange to Combeferre. His own hands still have a half-faded purple pattern on the back, and the nail enamel is only just starting to chip. Courfeyrac does new patterns every 10-day, fashionable and bright and inventive. Feuilly’s always wear off quickly, as hard as she works, but they’re always incredibly intricate when she has time for them. Enjolras, who isn’t vain but knows what he likes, has semi-permanent white inked over his fine hands. Bahorel’s stunning, daring designs are always a bold red. Musichetta’s hands sparkle with the jewelry she wears off-duty.

Peoples’ hands here look so plain.

Finally, oblivious to his musings, Grantaire finishes and turns the tablet toward Combeferre, mouth twisted down and sideways.

The screen holds a sketch of space, if not one wholly accurate to where they are. Combeferre can recognize stylized stars and a nebula in the background, at least. Floating aimlessly is a figure all in black, likely meant to be Combeferre himself, and a large, sleekly designed ship that has to be the one they’re on. So, his guess in that was right – they must have picked him up on their instruments and decided to pull him inside, not knowing that Combeferre’s own was close by.

Grantaire is watching his face closely when he glances up, and they flick the screen to another image.

Here, it’s quickly clear that Grantaire has a talent for art. In even the quick sketch, it’s clearly Combeferre laid out in a bed, with the same medic as before bent over him and a wall-monitor with a heart-rhythm to the side, in case he’d missed the idea. There’s also a non-descript, featureless person in the act of taking the folded black spacesuit from a nearby counter. Someone unknown, then?

The next: a person in what must be the navigation deck, presumably the leader of the ship, pointing their finger toward a door. There’s a rounded rectangle with a curved extension inset in the rest of the scene, next to the leader’s mouth.

It takes him a moment to realize that it’s an attempt to represent _speech_ , which is actually quite clever. Inside the rectangle is a stylized image of Combeferre’s spacesuit, followed by a long, vertical line with a dot underneath. It’s not a symbol that Combeferre recognizes, so he’s not sure what it means. Beside that, there’s an image of the leader holding the suit out to Combeferre.

So. The leader of the ship has ordered people to find Combeferre’s suit, and evidently, they want to return it. That’s a very good thing, as long as Grantaire can be trusted to be telling the truth.

He’s trying to keep calm, but there’s a chill along the line of his spine and his stomach tenses. The sick feeling has nothing to do with gravity, because someone has _stolen his suit_ and there is no way to get in touch with his friends and to go home.

Combeferre is stuck, trapped on a foreign ship that’s keeping him immobilized, intentionally or not, with fearsome gravity, alone and isolated and no way to get better answers.

Grantaire hesitates a moment, and then sets aside the tablet and lays a hand on Combeferre’s blanket-covered foot. It’s a kind gesture.

It’s enough, barely.

 

\--

 

The next day, as far as Combeferre can tell, the ambassador shows up at the door with the medic. At first, he panics, subtly and internally, with the thought that they have changed their minds and decided that he would make a better specimen.

As it turns out, then simply intend to move him to a more comfortable room away from the medical bay. The ambassador starts at the feel of the brown-grey fur covering Combeferre’s skin, but the two of them help him slowly down the hall, taking the brunt of his weight against the gravity. The bottoms of his feet are sensitive, and they shoot sharp with pain at every excruciating step, unused to his weighted mass.

The new room has an unfortunate, unsettling air of permanency. That aside, it’s pleasant enough. The bed is comfortable, and there is an over the lap desk, which makes sense, and he appreciates that they recognize he will be spending a lot of time there. There are also chairs and clothing and a private bathroom.

He can’t be sure how normal this is for their ship, but the room is cozy and he relishes the privacy.

They leave him in peace, with what he thinks are assurances they will do what they can for him.

Combeferre agonizingly slowly manages to change clothing, as he has no accurate idea how long he’d been wearing the same thing. They favor two-piece garments here, with pants that reach the ankle and a shirt that buttons with sleeves that go all the way to the wrist.

The medic and the ambassador wore dark green, but Grantaire wore the same white as Combeferre’s been given, only his have nothing to suggest a rank or position. The clothes fit strangely on him, and they’re oddly stiff, but at least they’re clean. They itch at the cuffs.

Sitting heavily on the bed, Combeferre doesn’t bother to try to find a brush or anything else, simply weaves his hair into a simple sleep-braid and decides to attend to it later. Even that much effort is exhausting, and his legs loudly protest the short walk.

He misses home _profoundly_ right about now. Maybe it’s a day cycle for them, and he could be floating in the communal area and listening to Courfeyrac and Louison talk about the politics of the latest serial-drama to come out while Enjolras bumped against his shoulder, half awake and drowsy. Maybe it’s the evening, winding down at last, and he could be watching Bahorel and Joly try to come up with increasingly elaborate tricks while Jehan composed poetry in fluid motions and Marius re-braided Combeferre’s hair for something to do with his fidgeting fingers.

Combeferre misses them like vacuum, tugging at his tired heart.

Almost as though sensing his loneliness, though of course there’s no logical basis to assume that they can, Grantaire shows up.

“Combeferre, hello,” they sign, precisely enough that Combeferre wonders if they’ve been practicing.

“Hello Grantaire,” Combeferre replies. He hopes, desperately, that Grantaire has enough background in language that they’ll get to the point of having a conversation at some point, if Combeferre is confined to this ship for any length of time. Not quite daring to hope, he asks after his spacesuit.

Grantaire’s face screws up and they shake their head, holding out their empty hands. They mutter something to themselves, looking intensely unhappy.

Combeferre resigns himself to the fact that this seems to be a very large ship with a lot of space to search. It’s only been a day-cycle or so, after all.

Something of that must show on his face, because Grantaire’s expression shifts and they huff a quiet sound. Then, with a masterful movement, they tug one of the chairs over to Combeferre’s bedside, flip it around, and straddle it, draping one arm casually over the back of it and settling into an artful slouch even as they flip their other hand in some performative flourish.

Combeferre tries to hide his amusement, fairly sure that Grantaire would get on well with Bossuet. _Everyone_ gets along with Bossuet, but Grantaire would probably appreciate his sensual lounging.

“You can’t have intended to watch me in silence,” he says, instead. “Do you have a good way to pass the time?”

Grantaire can’t have understood him, but they seem to register it as a question about what they’re doing here – which is a very logical assumption, all things considered – and open the bag they have slung over their shoulder.

They come out with the tablet as before, and when Grantaire offers it to Combeferre, there’s a brightly colored, iconographic picture, with text in the form of lines and curves and loops at the top. It looks very, very like a children’s book.

Combeferre looks at them blankly, bewildered. Grantaire pushes the tablet toward him, with another crescent-moon smile.

When Combeferre doesn’t take it, they roll their eyes, sliding the screen to the next page and pointing at a bright, purple-blue sky as they say something short with a more musical intonation that is either intended to be mocking or to imitate the way people sometimes talk to infants. Or perhaps both, as Combeferre doesn’t know him well enough to be sure.

They’ve given Combeferre a simple reference point that they understand, so that Combeferre can start to give them simple words and sentences.

Enthused, Combeferre takes the tablet and shifts over so that they can both see it easily. He takes a few moments to figure out how best to start, but at least he has something to say.

 

\--

 

Combeferre has been here for a week now.

He is so, so tired of this unchanging room.

That isn’t entirely fair, as there is plenty in the room to keep him occupied. He has a very simple set of exercises designed to help him adapt to the gravity here that keep him busy for some of the time. Grantaire has managed to produce a tablet for him, which means that Combeferre can do research on this ship and its culture, as well as take notes. He also watches videos and listens to music, something undeniably interesting.

Only, it’s no substitute for interacting with the world, but there’s little other choice when gravity drags against him relentlessly and he can barely communicate with the people here.

“Okay?” Grantaire asks him, fingers crooking. Today, they’re seated at the small table, but Grantaire has folded his legs up on the chair, feet resting on top of his knees easily. His head tilts, sending his curls spilling to the side rather than waving and weaving the way Combeferre is used to hair doing.

The nice thing about Grantaire and his strange, occasionally caustic humor, is that Combeferre doesn’t feel too much like he has to try to smile no matter what.

He tries for one anyway, wishes he could explain the effects of isolation on the brain, but their shared vocabulary isn’t large enough for that in any language. “I’m a bit bored.”

“You miss your work?” Grantaire asks.

It’s a reasonable assumption. Grantaire, by now, knows that Combeferre’s ship is studying space in the area; it’s the mission of this ship, too, though Combeferre gathers that _they_ aren’t exactly trying to decide which groups of sentient species to approach.

“I do,” he allows, because he _does_. Combeferre gets focused on his work, buried in it for extended periods of time, and he’s aching to get back to his latest project even as he’s increasingly fascinated by humans and their languages and cultures and scientific approaches. “It’s also that there’s only so much to do in an unfamiliar, heavy gravity. I miss my friends, too.”

Grantaire, who he half expected to take offense or to try to make a joke of it, nods. “It’s not the ideal work-break. Tell me about them?”

So Combeferre, seizing on chance and kindness, does. He talks about reserved, passionate Enjolras and sincere, energetic Courfeyrac, who make him the best version of himself, and about the rest of them, darling and devoted and irreplaceable. He talks about awkward Marius, so new to their crew, who has finally gotten comfortable around him after a spectacularly bad start. He talks about the ship, with its rounded structure and just enough space for the lot of them. He talks about his mothers, who he hasn’t seen in far too long, but who always send him messages.

There’s so much to say, and so little that can be said.

“And what about you?” Combeferre asks, curious and aware that reciprocity is considerate. “Are you from a different group of humans than the rest on this ship?”

Grantaire tilts his head back and laughs.

“Something like that,” he says, and pauses to think. His mouth moves silently around a few options before he wrinkles his nose – distaste, Combeferre has learned – and settles on something. “I am an… electric tool person.”

“Electric tool person?” Combeferre echoes, intrigued and confused.

He wonders if Grantaire means someone who works with electronics, and that humans assign different genetic subtypes to different professions. Or maybe he means something else entirely.

“Like this-” Grantaire replies, holding up his tablet, “- or an, an electric thinking tool? For numbers and words?”

“A computer,” Combeferre supplies, when it flashes through his mind after several troubled moments of thought. Grantaire nods, filing away the correction.

A technology-person? A _computer_ -person. An android.

Combeferre’s species doesn’t have androids, as far as he knows, but they have at least one trade partner that does, and one of their planets is taking tentative movements in that direction.

Nothing like Grantaire, though. Of course, it could be that Combeferre is unused to humans enough that he doesn’t see all the glaring markers of difference that they would, but to his eyes, Grantaire is only a little different from the rest. But this explains the faint glow to his eyes, the same blue-green as the power-indicator on his tablet, and the hairlessness of his skin.

No wonder Grantaire has been picking up _both_ of Combeferre’s languages so quickly, if he can hear every tonal variation and can store every word and correction for later recall. Combeferre is only ever more impressed.

“You’re an android,” he says and he signs, to give Grantaire the word.

Grantaire bows at the waist, and Combeferre gathers from the wry twist of his mouth that it’s meant to be ironic, if not mocking. But when he straightens, whatever he sees in Combeferre’s expression settles and softens him.

Combeferre wonders what it was that made Grantaire feel the need to be perpetually on guard, always so wary that everything would be an attack. He reaches out slowly enough that Grantaire has time to shift away. He doesn’t. Combeferre’s hand just touches his knee. “Are there many of you on this ship?”

“A handful.” Grantaire rolls his shoulders casually – it’s not quite a dismissal, but it has a hint of deflection. “I was made to help the scientists. But my parent – humanity – did not care for me, because I have no head for maths. I know just love and liberty.”

“And languages,” Combeferre points out, and Grantaire’s eyes crinkle as he flicks a hand up and back briefly in some gesture of acquiescence. “You seem to like space, though?”

The expression on Grantaire’s face can only be some sort of pained, immeasurable awe, and his wild laughter seems helpless.

“Space is terrible and wonderful, and the most beautiful, horrifying thing I have ever seen,” Grantaire tells him, brevity stripping his words to sincerity, and though he looks as though he has a million things he would say if only he had the words for Combeferre to understand.

“It is,” Combeferre agrees, desperately missing the faint chill of bare space that slips even though his spacesuit, and the cosmic currents and stardust brushing by something as small as he, and the brilliant, ever changing patterns of stars beyond.

 

\--

 

Combeferre has been here almost two weeks when the leader of the ship finally has a chance to come meet him.

He certainly doesn’t begrudge her it, because this ship is much larger than Combeferre’s, meant to hold a staff of two hundred rather than twenty-one, and he really doesn’t doubt that they’ve been watching how he reacts, making sure that he’s what he says he is. It’s good practice, really.

She comes down with Grantaire trailing her, and Combeferre gets his first chance to study her outside of the quick sketch Grantaire had done the first day. Combeferre still isn’t firm on the distinctions the humans use for their gender categories, but Grantaire used _she_ for the leader as opposed to _he_ for the medic, and a “ _he, for now_ ” for himself, and he studies her, trying to pick out possible cues.

The leader stands firmly, spine straight, but her features look kind, and she meets Combeferre’s eyes without flinching. Her skin is a light rose-brown, her eyes a deep and striking blue, her golden hair tamed into a bun, her teeth white as stars when she smiles. She makes sure that Grantaire is standing next to her, not behind her, once they’re fully in the room.

“This is _Capitaine_ Fantine,” Grantaire introduces, because they haven’t been able to find a better translation. Combeferre hasn’t fully grasped the intricacies of the way the ship is organized, but there’s a hierarchy involved different to the one he’s familiar with. Grantaire turns to the _Capitaine_ and introduces Combeferre.

Fantine says something, speaking directly to Combeferre and sounding earnest. He’s not entirely sure if that’s polite or an insult, but Grantaire’s nose isn’t wrinkling and he isn’t rolling his eyes, so Combeferre decides tentatively that it’s the former.

“She says she’s very sorry that your spacesuit was taken,” Grantaire translates. “Nothing has been found so far, but she _will_ find it. Also, that it’s a pleasure to finally have the chance to meet you.”

Combeferre thinks she looks sincere. He tries to imitate the smile she gives him, a movement that’s still unfamiliar. “It’s a pleasure to meet her, too, and thank her for rescuing me and her generosity.”

Whether he’d really _needed_ rescuing, with his own friends nearby, is debatable, but it was a kind action and Combeferre would rather judge it on its merits.

When Grantaire relays what he said, Fantine looks genuinely taken aback at the idea that she needs to be _thanked_ for it, but then her expression softens into a quiet smile before she responds.

“She says it was no trouble and that she will give you anything you need while you are here.” Grantaire’s eyes _focus_ , and when he speaks, it’s with a sudden and surprising gentleness. “She means it, too. Whatever she can do to help you, she will.”

He decides to believe him, and nods.

Fantine stays a little while longer, to make sure that Combeferre is as comfortable as he can be and doesn’t need anything more, but her communications device eventually starts to go off and she reluctantly excuses herself.

She pauses in the doorway to look back at Combeferre with a fierce earnestness, and says one last thing with an expression he can’t read.

“She’ll find your suit, she says,” Grantaire signs. “No one should be trapped, with their precious things taken from them.”

Combeferre gets the sense that he and Grantaire are both missing context for the declaration, but when he looks back, Fantine is gone and the door is shut.

“I think she means it,” Combeferre says, reminded of Prouvaire’s own quiet determination.

Grantaire nods gamely, stepping further into the room and hopping up to sit on the table. He hooks one ankle behind the other and tilts his head. “The _Capitaine_ works hard and is fair. It might not be as fast as you’d like, but she will do everything in her power to find your suit and give it back.”

“Soon is a very relative term out here,” Combeferre points out dryly, but he feels more thoughtful than bitter. There must be, somehow, more that he can do to help, to help _himself_ , and make sure that he’s not stranded here permanently.

“What do you think your friends will do, if they don’t hear from you?” Grantaire asks, his brow furrowing. “It’s been two weeks, now, and there’s still a lot of the ship to search.”

They’ll be frantic, Combeferre thinks. Enjolras and Courfeyrac are pragmatic, but they’ve never been the sort to leave someone behind. But they’re also an exploratory vessel – they don’t have the military capabilities to launch an assault or a rescue mission. Oh, he wouldn’t put it past them to improvise, especially between Bahorel’s ability to find a fight and Bossuet’s uncanny ability to gather what they need where they need it in the most unexpected ways.

For now, they’re probably waiting, hoping that he can get them a message if he’s here, hoping not to find his lifeless shell if he’s been lost in the vacuum.

He stares at his hands and the last, faint traces of purple on his skin, the last few flakes of enamel on his nails.

Combeferre takes a breath to steady himself and looks back up. “There isn’t much they _can_ do. They might still be looking for me out there, but they’ll be wary to hail you. They might have picked up any transmissions you’ve been making that aren’t coded and realized that we don’t share a language. Obviously, _I_ can’t send them a message.”

Well, he could, if he had the technology to take apart and rebuild. But the tablet he has isn’t strong enough for that.

Grantaire looks sly, leaning back on his arms casually. “And if you _could_ send them a message? One way, in this case.”

“That I’m alive, safe, and working on coming home. That they should wait,” Combeferre says. It’s the truth, and it’s probably what the people in charge here want to hear, if Grantaire is required to tell them.

“The communications officer owes me a favor,” Grantaire says absently, but his mouth twists up at one corner. “I will… see what I can do.”

Combeferre has learned that Grantaire doesn’t get on well with authority or rules. He’d probably do this just for the fun of it.

“Thank you,” Combeferre says, and closes his eyes.

He hopes.

 

\--

 

After a month, Combeferre is numb.

Fantine, via Grantaire, gave him the update yesterday. Their search has gotten no farther, and they’ve no better idea who’s at fault.

The room closes in on him, condensing and condensing, a collapsing box of limited options.

He hasn’t slept since, suddenly seized by the sick fear of how long he might be stuck here for.

It’s not forever, he has to tell himself that, because there _are_ ways around it, but he can’t endanger his friends. There’s at least one person with a vested interest in him not leaving, and that means he can’t trust the good intentions of the rest of the crew, no matter how hard Fantine is working for him. There’s not enough information. There’s so much he doesn’t know. And still, everything _aches_ under the oppressive weight of gravity.

Getting out of bed hurts, but staying there, inactive, hurts in an entirely different way.

To be honest, it’s probably also partially due to the relative isolation. Going from a ship where he regularly interacts with thirteen other people to a place where he spends most of his time with one person has made him feel so, so alone. It messes with his head.

He still hasn’t slept when Grantaire shows up with dinner, jerking a little when the door hisses open.

Grantaire frowns, setting the tray on the table and taking one of the chairs. “You look terrible.”

Combeferre snorts. His last circuit of slow, laborious pacing brings him over to the table. He has to carefully leverage himself down to sit, easily bruised by dropping down too quickly and heavily. “It’s been a long day.”

“You didn’t get any sleep?” Grantaire’s look turns wry. “I hear that’s a vital function.”

“I couldn’t fall asleep, unfortunately.” Combeferre rolls his shoulders, a mannerism adopted from Grantaire. He picks up the eating utensil, beginning to pick at his meal. The food, though strange to him in taste and texture, is still _good_ , and he often enjoys it, and takes notes for curiosity’s sake, but today he feels listless. “Do you dream, when you sleep?”

It’s not _technically_ sleep, he’s learned. But Grantaire and other androids need to rest their processors and bodies, just as humans do. Likewise, they may not eat, but different electricity sources have what could be considered tastes. Dreams, though, dreams are different.

“Well, no.” Grantaire’s mouth twists, again. He sweeps one hand in a vague gesture. “We can program ourselves to run something similar, though. Same goal – to process data during downtime – different method. I don’t think humans can get stuck dreaming iterations of prime numbers, though. What do you dream about?”

“It varies, of course.” Combeferre thinks. Grantaire’s picked up Combeferre’s languages quickly, with his vocabulary expanding rapidly, but dreams are a hard thing to explain in any case. “Lately, I dream of darkness and freedom. We have a story, in my culture, of a young person who got lost in a swamp on a journey, bewildered by its endless turns – I dream of being in a swamp like that. Mostly it’s sensation and feeling, twisted around one another.”

“Sounds miserable.” Grantaire’s hands are often loud, his gestures taking up space, but that just means that Combeferre pays more attention when they grow small and gain a sharper precision. “No wonder you don’t want to sleep.”

Combeferre just shakes his head, because that’s not quite right, but he doesn’t have the words to explain. He feels raw and exhausted.

Gently, he nudges the tray out of the way and drops his head onto his arms.

For the space of two breaths, he stays there, where it’s dark and warm and heavy, always so heavy, and then he pulls himself back up, where Grantaire is watching him with a bemused, unsettled look.

“All I really want is to get my suit back and go home,” he tells Grantaire, his hands the only tangible, solid things. Home is freedom from this room, from unrelenting pain and fatigue, from solitude, from gravity. “It’s been a month, and they have nothing. What is there to do?”

Grantaire’s joviality is stripped from him, the exaggerated sarcasms and gestures vanished. His green eyes are fixed on Combeferre’s face, and his hands are a whisper of movement. “You’ll see.”

Combeferre frowns in silent question.

“I’ll look for it.” Grantaire brushes it off as though it were a casual thing, fleeting and inconsequential.

Combeferre knows better. “Your supervisors won’t like that, especially if it was one of them who took it.”

“Well, _scientists_ ,” Grantaire scoffs, the flick of the sign dismissive. “Just think of what you’ll need, once you get it back.”

“Why are you doing this? Won’t they know?” He shouldn’t question, Combeferre knows. He should take the good fortune and take it as far as he can, but the need to question is always his downfall.

Grantaire shakes his head and then grins a little too widely. “You’re the only other one who knows the languages we’re using, and they don’t have a camera in here. As for why…”

He looks fixedly at Combeferre’s hands, not at his face.

“I don’t know if it will work or that anything will turn out,” he finally continues, an expected if unwelcome dose of pessimism. “But, as your friend, I’ll help as best I can anyway.”

“Thank you,” Combeferre says, leaving his hand free to reach out and still Grantaire’s. It’s a light touch, but it seems to settle Grantaire’s faint sense of sudden agitation.

Grantaire’s hands under his are rough and worn, not taken care of because Grantaire doesn’t think they’re worth care; they reflect him more than any other part of his body.

“Duh,” Grantaire replies, and his eyes crinkle faintly at the corners again.

Gravity may be dragging Combeferre into a decaying orbit, but this leaves him light enough that he spins with sudden tiredness, thinking that perhaps he’ll be able to sleep tonight after all.

 

\--

 

Grantaire’s clandestine searching doesn’t mean that Combeferre sees much less of him.

Combeferre is grateful for it, even when Grantaire has no new or good news. They still talk, conversations more vibrant as Grantaire’s communicative competence increases, but sometimes it’s about plans, a word here or there about what they’ll need to do if Grantaire does find the suit.

While Grantaire can be caustic and loud, he’s also brilliant, a wealth of knowledge on so many different subjects, and is capable of sudden gentleness and kindnesses that send Combeferre into ricochet. Grantaire is good at listening, when he wants to, eyes roving or fingers tapping in rhythm or humming softly but still paying close attention to what Combeferre is telling him. His hands brush Combeferre’s, or his knee nudges against Combeferre’s leg, a wealth of contact that sinks warmth into Combeferre’s skin.

And then, Combeferre is woken by a hand on his shoulder, stirring him from his sleep.

“Combeferre,” Grantaire murmurs, banked urgency in his voice. “You need to wake up.”

He’s still not able to shoot upright, but Combeferre is instantly awake at that, blinking to clear his eyes as he leverages himself up, not needing to reach for the light as he focuses on Grantaire’s face. “What happened?”

Grantaire’s too-symmetrical face is wild as he silently lifts his hands. Combeferre’s suit spills from them, dark material so familiar and finally, after more than two months, so close to his touch.

Combeferre can’t help the wounded noise that falls from his mouth, and he snatches it almost involuntarily from Grantaire’s hands, shivering at the feel of it under his fingertips. It seems to be in working order, with no visible or tactile damage. Helpless, he clutches it to his chest, resisting the urge to bury his face in its familiar smooth feel.

“ _Thank you_ ,” he breathes, voice cracking, and Grantaire shrugs, looking away.

“Yeah, well.” His mouth trips up at the corner, wry and faintly distressed. “Do you still want to run?”

They have two plans in place. Either they can tell Fantine and work from there, or Combeferre can sneak off the ship and get in touch once he’s safely away. He’s been leaning toward the first, but now that he’s here: “Run.”

“Okay.” There’s some quiet, subtle heartbreak in Grantaire’s face before self-recrimination and self-loathing flash over his features, but then he nods, once and firm. “You should get ready to go. There are things I need to get.”

Combeferre’s hand flashes out. He snags Grantaire’s sleeve, then, when his attention is caught, slides his hand down to grasp Grantaire’s briefly.

“Will you come with me?” he asks. “Take one of the suits from here and come with me. We’d welcome you. _I’d_ welcome you.”

Grantaire blinks at him across the potential that stretches between them, an elongated suspension of a moment, dilated around this monumental black hole. The curtain of blankness draws away, and Grantaire looks so, so vulnerable.

Combeferre’s grip tightens. Grantaire squeezes back.

“Yes,” Grantaire says. “Yes. A few minutes; I only need a few things.”

Reluctantly, Combeferre lets go. His hands move as though from a distance. “Be fast. Be safe. I’ll be ready.”

Grantaire’s smile is a flicker of a distant satellite, and then he turns and leaves, fading as though he was never there.

Shakily, dizzy, Combeferre takes a long, deep breath and allows himself two seconds of closed eyes. Then, still holding his suit tight and close, he makes himself rise.

It’s brutally efficient to get ready to go. He cleans up, coiling his hair neatly out of the way. He dresses in his own clothes, blissfully free of the still-faintly-itchy, irritatingly long uniform-style garments he’d been given, and dons the suit on top of that. He runs the diagnostics, finding everything in working order, or at least working enough to get him home. He hesitates over the tablet, and then decides to keep it for reference use, once he’s back home. They _should_ interact with the humans, just not from here, not like this.

By the end of it, he’s exhausted and shaking, collapsing down on the edge of the bed to wait for Grantaire, the dark pressing impatiently around him.

Thankfully, it’s not a long wait at all. Grantaire has only a small bag slung over his shoulder when he enters, tucking Combeferre’s tablet in as well without protest.

Grantaire offers Combeferre a hand up, pausing when he’s on his feet. With a stifled sound of amusement and crinkled eyes, Grantaire looks up at him, not quite coming up to Combeferre’s chin. They’ve stood beside one another before, but never this close.

“You’re ridiculously tall,” Grantaire informs him, sliding under Combeferre’s arm to help him limp across the room.

Combeferre gives him a look, leaning over a little more heavily than he’d like. “Or you’re ridiculously short.”

As they cross the threshold, Grantaire gives him a look of mock offense but doesn’t reply further as they step into the long, brightly lit corridor. Somehow, he’s produced some sort of rolling pallet, probably meant for moving heavy science or ship equipment.

“That,” Combeferre breaths, careful to be quiet, “is a brilliant idea.”

“All my ideas are brilliant,” Grantaire retorts, but he looks pleased all the same, helping Combeferre settle on top of it where he can lean against the back. He hands over the bag as well, and Combeferre cradles it in his lap.

They have to be quiet, but not necessarily silent. No one’s keeping watch on these halls at this time of night; there’s no reason.

Secure in that, Combeferre twists a little to look up at Grantaire as he pushes the cart, signing rather than speaking. “Where did you find it?”

“One of the scientists,” Grantaire murmurs, low enough not to be overheard. He scowls fiercely. “It was hidden very cleverly in the laboratory he worked in, but I’ve worked in them enough to realize that something wasn’t quite right. I think he’s been running tests on it, but it doesn’t seem damaged. I don’t think so, at least?”

Combeferre signs confirmation of that, unsettled, unsure how he feels about being nothing more than an object to another sentient being. How close was he to literally becoming an object of study? But he’s so close, so close to being home and free and weightless that every part of him seems to resonate with it.

“Apparently ethical codes are for other people,” Grantaire says, bitter. An unspoken history, perhaps? Something more that Grantaire knows? Or just characteristic pessimism?

“Some people observe them as they do the planets,” he signs, resigned and sorrowful, “as though from a very great distance.”

Grantaire’s response is somewhere between a scoff and a dry huff of laughter, but his eyes are flat.

They don’t talk more until they get to the airlock, Grantaire sealing the door that leads to it behind them. He goes to find a suit that will fit him well enough, taking the bag with him.

Still sitting on the pallet, Combeferre finds his radio and turns it on, relieved to hear the fizzle of white noise that greets him.

“Hey, Musain,” Combeferre says quietly, wondering whose voice will be the first that he hears, who will welcome him back to the world of the living.

There’s a delay and then a tentative, choked, “Combeferre?”

It’s Feuilly. Amazing, astounding, clever, hard-working Feuilly, who’s all warm smiles and rough hands and kind, serious eyes.

“Hi, Feuilly.”Combeferre pushes it past the dryness of his throat. “It’s me. I’m coming home, and bringing someone with me. You should be able to track my coordinates once we’re out of the ship. Can you send me yours so we can head in the right direction?”

“As soon as I can,” Feuilly promises, because Feuilly is always practical. There’s a beat of silence and then she says, quietly, “And Combeferre? Be home soon.”

“As soon as I can,” Combeferre echoes, and reluctantly clicks off. They’re not out yet. Carefully, he pulls himself up, muscles crying in protest and brittle bones shifting in his skin, and wobbles over to Grantaire, who’s tucked up against a video console.

He’s speaking low and quickly, much too fast for Combeferre to catch even the few words of Grantaire’s language that he does know. Glancing back, Grantaire shoots him a stressed smile before turning to the screen and finishing up.

“A message to Fantine,” Grantaire explains, dragging his fingers through his hair. “I wanted her to know what happened so no one could make any… bad assumptions. I told her that we’d send a message as soon as possible, but that it might be a few hours.”

“It was a good thought.” Combeferre’s glad he thought of it. “I’m ready when you are.”

Grantaire looks around the bay one last time and then pulls on the helmet for his suit. Combeferre adjusts his own suit.

It’s much less clunky than Grantaire’s, fitted against his skin tightly and comfortably, and the face-piece fitted over his nose and mouth, teeming with microorganisms that turn carbon dioxide into breathable air at a rapid rate, is much more convenient than the heavy looking air tank attached to the back of Grantaire’s. Combeferre’s never been so glad for his own familiar suit.

“Let’s go,” his fingers flash, and Grantaire initiates the airlock opening sequence.

It dumps them outside in a sucking rush. Thankfully, Combeferre’s instinct kicks in, and he rides the wave of it rather than tumbling heels-over-head, flying free into open space. Grantaire, unused to it, catches up to him a few moments later, propelled by jets.

As they’re carried far enough away from the ship that Combeferre can see the whole curve of it, not just the monstrous height of one side, he waves for Grantaire to stop.

Grantaire cuts the jets on his suit obediently as they drift in the darkness.

It’s clear he’s not been in null gravity before, but he takes to it admirably, testing his movements and motions while they wait. Grantaire tumbles, infinitely slowly, through the cold and quiet. Even the bulky spacesuit does nothing to belay the exquisite grace of his carefully turned limbs, the dancer’s instinct made finer still in the limitless, weightless space.

His face is bright as a supernova, his smile breathtaking and his eyebrows arched like a meteor’s movement.

Combeferre is overwhelmed, is shattered, is surpassingly _fond_. He catches Grantaire’s eye and lifts his brows, affectionate. His hand, outlined in gleaming color, stretches out, just barely in reach.

Grantaire accepts it, and very gently draws them closer, until they’re face to face, floating hand-in-hand in quietly-won freedom.

There’s a flash of a signal on Combeferre’s arm panel, the coordinates Les Amis promised, but he lingers just a few seconds more, savoring this.

Finally, Combeferre glances down at his arm. The ship isn’t far away, but the farther they are from the human’s ship, the safer he’ll feel. Grantaire seems to concur, the two of them making their way in silence across the space between.

His breath comes faster as they get closer, to the ship that blends in with the black, and Combeferre grabs onto the handle by the open airlock with a final, solid sense of coming home.

As soon as they’re inside, Combeferre closes the doors, letting the room repressurize while Grantaire glances around, curiously staring at the labels around the room. They’ll have to get him access to the language database, the one that Combeferre edits in his spare time. At Grantaire’s rate, he’ll be able to carry on full conversations easily within the week.

Combeferre tugs the suit away from his face as soon as the air is circulating again, and Grantaire follows his lead, tucking the bulky helmet under his arm.

The interior door opens and Feuilly pokes her head through. Her expression wavers between delight and distress, but she holds her hands out to Combeferre immediately. She must have painted them recently, because there’s an elaborate pattern inked on her skin, blue standing out against the grey-spotted silver of her skin.

Overwhelmed, he reaches out to take her hands, letting her pull him into the hallway.

“Are you alright?” she asks him, dark eyes searching him. Combeferre nods.

“I’m wonderful,” he tells her, only letting go to reach for Grantaire behind him, pulling him forward as well. “This is Grantaire – I wouldn’t be here without him. Grantaire, this is Feuilly.”

“Hey,” Grantaire says, and Feuilly favors him with a smile.

Combeferre is sure there are more questions she wants to ask, but Courfeyrac comes careening around the corner, only doing the bare minimum to slow down before tangling himself up in Combeferre. Combeferre tucks his face against the side of Courfeyrac’s neck, and his breath catches when Enjolras’ arms wrap around them both.

He pulls away just enough to see them, drinking in the sight of their beloved faces, drawn with worry and shining with relief.

“I missed you,” he signs, over and over, unable to speak, and they engulf him again. It’s a wealth of contact after so long without them, and Combeferre feels warm, like he’s fallen back into the orbit of the sun.

“We missed you too,” Courfeyrac murmurs, Enjolras’ response a silent hand smoothing back Combeferre’s hair. He shuts his eyes, overwhelmed with gratitude and affection.

“What happened?” Courfeyrac murmurs in his ear. “Are you okay?”

Combeferre looks up at him, eyebrows curving up. “I’m okay. I’ll give you the full story when everyone’s together, but a scientist on their ship took my spacesuit and I couldn’t leave until I got it back. Grantaire found it for me, and everything was okay.”

Enjolras’ eyes are grave on Combeferre’s face, but then he tilts their foreheads together, a gesture of trust and belief.

“It’s good to have you home,” he says, for Combeferre’s ears alone. “You look tired?”

“It’s the middle of a night-cycle for me right now,” Combeferre agrees. That’s not all, and Enjolras knows it, but exhaustion encompasses the disorientation of being in microgravity again, the way his head is spinning and his body is reeling from the change, leaving him feeling a little sick. But he wants to see them all, now.

Courfeyrac hums a consoling note, his hand rubbing soothingly over Combeferre’s arm. “Well, then, you and Grantaire should get changed and whatever else you need, then come say hello before you get some sleep, and when you wake up, we can have Joly look you over and we’ll do whatever politics need doing.”

It’s a kind plan, and a good one. Combeferre nudges noses with both of them affectionately, and finally surfaces to look for Grantaire.

Grantaire is watching them with Feuilly, his hand hooked tightly around a bar. He doesn’t at all look perturbed by the way the three of them have rotated away, apparently having no directional disorientation. He is, however, pressed back a little, lurking without participating.

Sympathetic after two months of lonely isolation, Combeferre pushes off, legs instinctively curling up toward his chest as he drifts over to Grantaire, stopping himself on another handhold.

“Come get cleaned up and changed with me,” he offers, keeping his hands low and between them. “And you can decide if you want to meet everyone now or later?”

The long day and long trip must be draining even for an android, or the prospect of meeting Combeferre’s friends now must be overwhelming, because Grantaire nods without hesitation, his grin passing quicker than a comet. With a sarcastic arched brow, he holds a hand out, as though silently inviting Combeferre to lead the way.

Combeferre bids temporary farewell to his friends one last time, with lingering affection, and promises to return as soon as he feels less overpowered at the prospect of _more_ , and then leads the way to his room, Grantaire trailing him.

The chamber is just as Combeferre left it. His notes and computer are waiting for his return, everything tucked neatly in its place. Seeing it again, smelling it again, is like free falling into a memory, and he floats there, eyes closed, until he can breathe easily again.

“It’s a nice room,” Grantaire says, rotating aimlessly as he takes it all in. His long fingers twitch occasionally when he sees something he must want to reach for, but he doesn’t. His eyes flick back to Combeferre, studying him in his own environment.

Even beside Courfeyrac and Enjolras, both exceptionally beautiful in their own ways, Combeferre finds strange Grantaire stunning. He already moves with grace if not mastery of this space so new to him, and his curls wreath him like the inverse of a solar eclipse. His eloquent hands weave worlds into being and his expressive features broadcast his emotions without trying, and Combeferre dares the universe to find proof that Grantaire is not a person as deserving of caring and friendship and freedom as he.

“I’m glad to be home,” Combeferre tells him honestly. “I’m glad you’re with me.”

They have time and space now to learn one another, to develop the push and pull of equal and opposite reaction so that they move in synchronization and understanding.

“You get sappy when you’re tired,” Grantaire informs him with tolerant amusement, his eyes crinkling so gently at the corners. Under that, he looks touched. It’s enough.

Combeferre will invite him to bed later.

For now, they change. Combeferre folds up his suit carefully and reverently, tucking it safely away because he can’t bear it to be away from his side, though he knows it needs to be checked over. He slides back into his own familiar clothes, soft against his skin and leaving his lower arms and legs bare. Later, he’ll ask Joly to braid his hair, Bahorel to decorate his hands and nails, until he feels like a person again.

Combeferre offers clothing to Grantaire as well, who looks unused to the shorter sleeves and legs, but doesn’t complain. His smooth synthetic skin is space-ship pale, limbs finely curved and oddly slender, and his hands look even more bare than usual, but somehow Combeferre thinks that won’t be true for long.

And then, finally, they tuck together in the middle of Combeferre’s room, seeking solace and silence in one another. Grantaire’s forehead rests against the flat of Combeferre’s chest, legs tangled together.

“Alright?” Combeferre murmurs into Grantaire’s hair, already feeling the ache of constant tension draining slowly from his limbs, returning him to equilibrium.

Grantaire nods, threading his fingers through Combeferre’s. He holds them like they’re some invaluable gift, like Combeferre is beyond belief. “Are you?”

“Yes.” Combeferre has always had a gift for understatement. He squeezes Grantaire’s hands and listens to the faint noises of the ship around them.

He’s home and they’re free and soon, he’ll see the friends who comprise his family again.

Combeferre is weightless.

 


End file.
